


Coming Back to You

by StealthKaiju



Series: Music of the Spheres [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ficlet, Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, Light Angst, M/M, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 18:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20550953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealthKaiju/pseuds/StealthKaiju
Summary: ‘I lived alone but I was only / Coming back to you.’Coming back to you by Leonard CohenPrompt: Trip / Drive / Destination





	Coming Back to You

‘Too fasst? _Too fasst?!_’Crowley hissed, his grip like iron on the steering wheel. He drove at a ridiculous speed through the streets of London, hardly seeing the pedestrians and traffic (or the occasional lamp-post) hastily moving out of his way. ‘I’ll give that whiney basstard too fasst! He won’t ssee me for dusst, ever again!’

He drove for a long time, until he got to the coast. That did not stop him; he carried on, driving over the Channel, thinking he’d stay in Europe for a while (though not Paris – no, not Paris). Visit places. Drink some good wine. Generally cause a little chaos, some grievances, you know, be a demonic influence because he WAS A DEMON!

Aziraphale had never forgotten that, had he?

The weather was better in Europe. He lazed in the sun at the heat of the day, practically alone as everyone kept indoors away from the scorching heat. He basked in it, gloried in it. Let his body feel like it was melting, let his brain almost boil so it wouldn’t think of anything.

He kept himself busy. Yet, he kept finding things, odd objects in museums or strange behaviour of people, and wanting to tell someone about them. No, not someone.

Aziraphale. He wanted to tell Aziraphale.

He kept on drafting postcard messages in his head that he would not allow himself to send. Anecdotes. Jokes. Observations. All things that only really took life when they had an audience. And he was lonely. The anger he had felt, the humiliation at being (rejected? chastised? told no?) _whatever_ was soon replaced by something worse: loneliness.

So, after a few years, he went back to London. Walked into the bookshop like he owned the place, walked straight into the backroom and sat on the sofa (and was grateful to see there were still the cushions and blanket arranged how he liked on there, almost if they’d been kept there on purpose).

Aziraphale looked up from his book and smiled. A happy, beaming, genuine smile. ‘Crowley!’ he exclaimed, standing up and clapping his hands together. ‘You’re back, how wonderful! Can I get you a drink?’ He began to walk to the kitchen. ‘I’m getting us drinks,’ he called back, and the sound of clinking glasses and bottles could be heard. He bustled in again quickly carrying a very fine bottle of whiskey and poured a generous measure for each, then sat down and looked at Crowley expectantly. ‘Now, tell me everything!’ he asked, practically begged.

Crowley gave a shrug, as if he wasn’t absolutely desperate to tell Aziraphale all about his trip.

After all, what was the point of going anywhere if you didn’t have somewhere to come back to?


End file.
